THANK YOU FRANK..I AM HERE FOR ANYONE THAT IS OR HAS BEEN ABUSED. IT MUST STOP IN THIS WORLD OR WE ARE BROKEN IN OUR SOULS AND HEARTS..WE MUST ALL BE THAT DROP IN THE OCEAN TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE.
You are sincerely wonderful, EchoRose!
His Falling Tears
Tears falling from a child’s eyes,
as his mother covers her own.
A hand rose to strike at a child’s
heart breaking it into a million pieces
along with its hopes and dreams.
The child heads for the door, and opens
it to leave, as thunder roars and lightning
flashes a child looks up at a forbidding sky.
The father threatens the child, spewing hate
This will leave them both forever scarred.
In his loneliness, fear returns to haunt him.
Alone in the world, except for his companions
hurt and pain. In silence the child withdraws
Into an inner world of beauty, that is known
only to himself, and no one else.
So under a small table he hides, safe within
a fortress built upon lies. As his father lifts
the bottle in triumph as if satisfied. A small
child alone within himself cries, as he wipes
his eyes amidst, his falling tears!
By Frank S. Copyright 2010
All rights reserved THIS IS AT THE BOTTOM OF OUR GROUP PAGE IN SHARES BY FRANK S. HERE IS THE LINK TO LEAVE A COMMENT FOR FRANK.... http://www.care2.com/c2c/share/detail/2315405
This post was modified from its original form on 08 Sep, 21:31
I am doing the best I can.
Enter this Deserted House
But please walk softly as you do.
Frogs dwell here and crickets too.
Isn’t a ceiling, only blue
Jays dwell here and sunbeams too.
Floors are flowers – take a few.
Ferns grow here and daisies too.
Whoosh, swoosh – too-whit, too-woo,
Bats dwell here and hoot owls too.
Ha-ha-ha, hee-hee, hoo, hooo,
Gnomes dwell here and goblins too.
And my child, I thought you knew
I dwell here…and so do you.
In poems, you are a pearl
Or a dewdrop,
Something precious, something fragile;
A star is our cradle,
Angels and fairies attend you
To me you are soft flesh
With jolly feather-hairs upon your head
And little thoughts going round
I might be a poet, though,
And you my poem,
For in my arms is cradled
WHERE THE SIDEWALK ENDS
There is a place where
The sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows
Soft and white,
And there the sun burns
And there the moon-bird rests
From his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where
The smoke blows black
And the dark street winds
Past the pits where the
Asphalt flowers grow.
We shall walk with a walk that
Is measured and slow,
And watch where the
Chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the
Yes we’ll walk with a walk
That is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the
Chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark,
And the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
One laugh of a child
will make the holiest day
more sacred still.
Sometimes when I wake up early
In the morning before it is light.
I hear my boy talking in his crib.
If I rise upon my elbow very
Gently so that he will not see me,
I can see him there in the dim light,
Dark eyes with his fat hands
Clasped together or patting one another.
All the while he makes those tender,
Inarticulate sounds in his own language.
To whom is he speaking in the dark,
He is still so near Heaven,
This little one
Is he talking in the language
Of the angels to some visitor
Invisible to me, but seen
By his pure eyes?
Is he making a report
Of his day’s events,
His own progress,
Or asking after the welfare
Of others he loves
In the land he left so
Short a time ago?
Perhaps the angel who
Cared for him comes
In that holy hour, to sit with
Him and love him yet awhile
I didn’t think orange
went with purple until
I saw the sunset
you made on Tuesday.
That was cool.
Here’s to the kids who are different
The kids who don’t always get A’s
The kids who have ears
Twice the size of their peers
or noses that go on for days.
Here’s to the kids who are different.
The kids who are just out of step.
The kids they all tease
who have cuts on their knees
and whose sneakers are constantly wet.
Here’s to the kids who are different.
The kids with a mischievous streak.
For when they have grown as
history has shown
it’s their difference that make
"Well now, what are you drawing, Darling?"
I asked my little girl as she sketched in
Sweeping arcs and lines that
Dashed and whirled.
"Oh, Mommy, I’m drawing a happy day,
A pretty day," she said;
"It begins here where the sun peeks in
And I jump out of bed."
"Well, it sure is bright and busy, like
A day made just for you!"
Then she said, "Yes, it does seem
I’ve so many things to do."
"And what’s this squiggle in you day
Shaped something like a heart?"
She said, "Oh, Mommy, you know –
That’s the when-you-hug-me part!"
Mary R. Hurley
There’s nothing like being
a baby. Our earliest childhood
is a time of wonder and joy,
of innocence and warmth. It is
a time of first discoveries, of
first steps and first blunders –
the first encounter with the
universe. No matter how our world
may change, babies will continue
to be little bundles of all that is
best in our world and in our nature.
WONDER OF LIFE
Children are the most wholesome part of the
human race, the sweetest, for they are
freshest from the hand of God.
Whimsical, ingenious, mischievous, they fill
the world with joy and good humor.
We adults live a life of apprehension as
to what they will think of us; a life
of defense against their terrifying
energy; a life of hard work to live up
to their great expectations. We put
them to bed with a sense of relief –
and greet them in the morning with
delight and anticipation. We envy
them the freshness of adventure and
the discovery of life.
In all these ways, children add to the
wonder of being alive. In all these
ways, they help to keep us young.
SOMEWHERE THE CHILD
Among the thousands of tiny things
growing up all over the land,
some of them under my very wing –
watched and tended, unwatched and
untended, loved, unloved, protected
from danger, thrust into temptation –
among them somewhere is the child
who will write the novel that will
stir men’s hearts to nobler issues
and incite them to better deeds.
There is the child who will paint
the greatest picture or carve the greatest
statue of the age; another who will
deliver his country in an hour of peril;
another who will give his life for
a great principle; and another, born
more of the spirit than of the flesh,
who will live continually on the
heights of moral being, and
dying, draw men after him.
It may be that I shall preserve
one of these children to the race.
It is a peg big enough on which
to hang a hope, for every child
born into the world is a new
incarnate thought of God, an ever
fresh and radiant possibility.
Kate Douglas Wiggin
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